


Light

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Amrod and Amras want Fëanor to know where their loyalties lie.





	Light

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for Hana’s “44. “Cuddle Me.” Feanor/Amord/Amras” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s late in the night when his door creaks open, and Fëanáro hasn’t quite retired yet—he holds a key in his hands, one he plans to spend more time on at the forge. He hasn’t yet decided which details he wants to carve in around the bow, but he’s sure it will come to him. Creation is such a _natural_ art to him, and if he waits, the inspiration will flow straight through his fingers.

But he sets the key aside on the nightstand when he sees who dares enter his private chambers. It’s been years since Nerdanel shared his bed, and he isn’t surprised that it isn’t her, but instead, one of his seven sons. All of them have full run of his home, right down to the most intimate of places. His youngest slips into the darkness of his room, the candle that burns on the far wall washing over dark copper hair. It’s grown browner than Nelyafinwë’s, still lighter than his twin’s. Fëanáro knows that Telufinwë can’t be far behind. Where his Pityo goes, his Telvo follows.

Sure enough, when Pityafinwë’s halfway to the bed, the door parts again, and Telufinwë sidles through. He shuts it carefully behind him again, and then both are wafting to his mattress. Fëanáro allows them to climb in, Pityafinwë crossing to his other side and Telufinwë staying where he sits. The two of them squirm beneath the blankets without a word, then tug insistently at his nightshirt, and Fëanáro lets out an indulgent sigh. He settles down between them, because it’s always difficult to deny anything to his most precious of treasures. He lies on his back so he doesn’t have to choose, and both twins drape over his sides, little hands spread across his chest. They’ve both grown considerably, but compared to their taller brothers and the elders of Valinor, they seem perpetually young. They play it up on purpose, he thinks, which is proven when Pityafinwë wines, “Cuddle me, Atya.”

“Cuddle me too,” Telufinwë murmurs whilst burrowing into his shoulder. If they were in the field, Fëanáro would scold them for such weakness.

In the privacy of his chambers, he pecks each of their foreheads in order of birth. Pityafinwë mewls happily, Telufinwë squirming against his side. Fëanáro purrs into the darkness, “And to what do I owe such affections?”

Telufinwë frowns. It’s difficult to see in the dark and at his angle, but he knows the moods of his sons better than his own, and he can _feel_ this. Pityafinwë tells him quietly, “We spent all day with mother again, and we are sorry.”

“We love you,” Telufinwë adds, as though there could ever be any doubt of that. 

Pityafinwë still mirrors, “We do, Atya.”

“It was only that mother asked us to help her with her forge. We had meant to return to yours, only...”

“We lost track of time. May we stay with you now, Atya? Until we are all rested?”

In truth, Fëanáro hardly noticed. They’re all grown now, and they’re left to their own devices, though indeed, most find time to check in with him. More so than their mother. But he never considered it a competition, and he curls in his hands to rub both their shoulders, assuring them, “You will always have a place with me. Both of you.”

Telufinwë smiles and mutters, “Good,” then presses a kiss under Fëanáro’s chin. Pityafinwë follows to brush his soft lips along Fëanáro’s jaw. 

They squirm against him as they nuzzle into his face, until Fëanáro murmurs, “Be still, my little gems. If you really wish to please me, you will behave and sleep. I am not as young as the two of you, and I need my rest.”

Another time, they might spout that he’s far from old—they love to shower him in complements, though time has little meaning to anyone of Fëanáro’s age. Now they only nod, eager to please, and go still against them. He wraps his arms around as much of them as he can, at least cuddling them as they ask. It’s a small thing to give, and very rewarding. Their smiles shine like the Trees. 

But they close their eyes and obey him, bringing pleasant dreams.


End file.
